Fatal Illness
by connorfemway
Summary: Illness comes in many forms - from physical, to mental, to emotional. It's one thing the Assassin and the Commander have in common in this moment. Fem!Connor


"Who takes care of you when you get sick, Connor?"

A reply to an ask on the ask blog **connorfemway** on tumblr.

This turned out a lot more like another character's POV rather than Connor's because of the subject matter, but that's okay. I'm just so glad that I finally got a reply done that I actually really like! With finals week next week, I've been so busy. Home stretch, oh my.

As with a few of the others in recent times, I didn't do as much proofreading... so there's likely mistakes. I'm actually considering looking for a new beta reader of sorts, but I haven't decided if I want to do that yet. Uhm, anyways.

Enjoy.

* * *

Each breath is hard and raspy, sounds made resembling a collapsed throat. Despite such a thing not being unlikely of the one who breathes, there was still something else that lingered there. Something that was not of injury, but of illness.

A paralyzing, deadly illness.

Snow dusts the ground and sleet now falls. The roads have become muck. Boots sink ankle-deep into it. The wheels of carriages often become stuck. Those dressed in blue refuse to leave the sanctum of their tents or the dry spots close to barely-burning flames. Dark rings decorate the undersides of drooping eyes.

So much has gone wrong in such a short amount of time.

The flap of the tent is pinned open, revealing a sliver of the dark inside. It is this sliver that delivers sickened breathing to a general's tense ears.

From down the way, men cough and wheeze and vomit. They push aside water, food, doctors and their nurses. They curl up under too many blankets, drink too much alcohol, die in this deafening winter.

When George exhales, there is something that tugs at his chest. It is painful, but it is ignored. It is a feeling that has persisted longer than others.

A bout of coughing from within the tent behind the stoic man increases the pain.

What was it, then? Guilt? Sorrow? Grief? Stress? Or perhaps it was a calculated mix of all these things and so much more. There was so much on the man's conscience than even that.

A head is turned to peer over an attached shoulder. From within the dark tent a figure stands out - the figure of an ill woman who paws at the ground as the coughing finally fades away into steady wheezing.

The sight is frightening, and it fills George Washington with a renewed rage.

The man from just minutes ago has returned, startling Washington's gaze away from the woman inside the tent.

"The physician has left to pick up supplies, commander," the man looks remorseful, and stands up as tall and stiff as a board, "He did not say when he would be back."

The general's face has become stone-like.

"I never authorized such actions," he says, but does not direct any anger or stress at the man who stands before him. With arms crossed behind his back, he takes a moment to think. This reaction calms the man who stands before him.

"I believe it was on an emergency basis," the man states, "His return time is unknown, his destination is a small town down-"

"I know," the general nods, unlocking a hand from behind his back so he might wave it in the air, a clear dismissal of the small details, "What of our others?"

"They tend to the injured as we speak," the man reaches up to scratch behind his neck, beneath a heavy scarf piled around it upon his shoulders, "Their work is far from finished."

Another nod. The general takes in a deep breath and holds it for several long seconds, gaze falling upon the building in the distance.

The building that was used as headquarters. It was also to be used for his quarters, but he had opted out of such a thing in favor of the same livings as his soldiers.

"Listen here," Washington's gaze falls back upon the man, "Please issue my order to those able."

Their chatter is unheard by the pair of ears within the tent.

Even the darkness weighs heavily upon a foggy mind. The only thought that is held for longer a few moments is the observation of breathing - of the raspy noise that comes from somewhere. There was no function turned on in Connor's brain to connect this noise with her own throat, with her own body, a suddenly intangible extension of herself that was so far out of reach she had forgotten what it even was to move.

And yet, she knew so well that it was there. The pain within her joints, the sweat on her skin, the rush of shivers and the explosion of pain in her lungs with each resurfacing cough helped to remind her of who she was and how she was in this world - a weakened body lying upon the blankets at the bottom of this tent.

Alone, and all too helpless.

Each breath is taken into her body with strain, as though fear guided all unconscious movement. And really, she was afraid - each breath brought the chance for the coughing fits to resurface, for the knotted worm in her belly to uncoil and send what little food she had managed to eat skyrocketing up her throat and out of her body. Hours had been spent curled into the same position to prevent such, but the only thing she had managed to keep away was the vomiting, at the expense of food being left to sit beside her, now cold.

The cloth that had been set upon her head was now tossed to the side, somewhere she dared not to look. Opening her eyes was a task in itself - everything hurt her head, made her feel further dizziness, the likes of which she could no longer tolerate.

This was what cold Hell felt like. Had she the function to think clearly, she might wonder if she would ever come out of this intact.

The wheezing is all she can hear, closed eyes allowing her only the sight of darkness. Even as Washington parts the flap of the tent and steps inside, feet crunching upon dirt and light thrown across the bottom of the tent, Connor does nothing to respond or even notice his presence.

The damp cloth upon the floor is now dirty. Washington takes it up into his hands as he sets his knees upon the dirt floor, inches away from the woman curled into a tight ball. A bowl of water is pulled closer to the general's side, and the cloth is washed. Thumbs work it to scrub away the dirt. A pinkish stain is scrubbed at for a few long moments before Washington realizes it is a bloodstain and will not come out.

Cloth wrung, Washington reaches out and brushes some of the hair off of the Assassin's sweat-drenched face. Her expression is one of severe pain - eyes squeezed closed, chapped lips a thin, tight line across her flushed features. Dark circles mar the skin beneath her eyes.

Washington is sure that this is the lowest he has seen, and will ever see, this strong woman.

The cloth is dabbed upon flushed skin. George does his best to remain quiet as he does this. It was easy enough to tell that the Assassin did not sleep, but the aim was to sleep. In sleep she could truly rest, but even that had come with trouble over the course of this horrible day.

Was his solution one that would help? He was sure it would, as long as he was careful.

Once her face has been wiped with the cloth, it is set aside. The messenger from earlier steps into the tent. With no words spoken, Washington directs the man to the various items within the room: the bowl of water and cloth, extra blankets, medical supplies, the Assassin's forgotten equipment. The messenger makes his task out of retrieving all of these things, while the general focuses upon the ill woman herself.

The blankets she is tangled in are woven more tightly around her body, a focus placed upon covering her whole body. As he moves to pick her up, the woman's wheezing becomes a fit of coughing yet again. The goal pauses momentarily; Washington grabs a flask from beside the woman and opens it.

"No-" she mutters through her choking as the flask is pressed to her lips. She tries to crane her head away from it but with no luck.

"It is only water, Connor," the general insists, "You need to drink it. It will help your coughing." Only once she has taken a few strained sips from the flask does he feel satisfied.

The messenger opens the flaps of the tent as Washington steps outside. A moment is taken to adjust the heavy woman in his arms - her head resting against his shoulder instead of hanging limp. Connor's unfocused eyes are now open, two brown, unfocused slits.

"Commander?"

"Silence now, my friend," he says to her, stepping across the mucky road alongside his loyal messenger, "We are simply moving you."

The words have hardly been absorbed before Connor's closing her eyes, grimacing at the movement as Washington walks. She swallows down the coiling knots in her stomach, chokes on her coughs. The wheezing torments Washington as he treks up the hill to the headquarters, leaning over Connor to prevent the light sleet from falling upon her.

The door is tossed open by another soldier who is there already, by command. Other men work to round up the ill, the wounded, and already three-fourths of the bottom floor has been strewn with blankets and ratty bed mats. Some sick and wounded men have already been brought here.

What Washington notices the most, and is most comforted by, is the warmth of this building. Together he and the messenger make their way upstairs.

"I've a key on my side," he instructs the man, nodding down to his right side, "One of them is for this door."

"You want her in here?" the man inquires as he takes a key ring from a pocket within Washington's coat. He begins to try each key on the lock, every now and then turning his gaze to the sick woman in the commander-in-chief's arms.

"It might be better to keep her separate from the others."

The man nods, scarf catching on his nose, not on accident. It now covers the bottom half of his face.

The door is opened a moment later, and the man offers Washington step in first.

Medical supplies and the items carried are set around the room. The Assassin is settled down, slowly, upon a bed in the corner of the room. The general finds himself taking extra moments to adjust the blankets around her, adjust the pillow beneath her head. In this light, Connor is almost unrecognizable.

"Instruct all doctors bring their patients here," Washington turns to the messenger once he has gone to step out of the room, "The injured, the ill. We will accommodate those with rarer illness and set up tables for operation."

A nod has the man leaving, door left ajar.

The general eases himself down into the chair beside the Assassin's beside.

It was becoming a phobia, of sorts. When a man came to offer Washington a board to write upon, with quill and inkwell and paper, and the names of those who had just passed from their illness and injury.

One leg is crossed over the other as Washington takes the board and settles it upon his lap. As he scrawls, doctors come and go from the room to report. Many stop to tend to Connor, who coughs and wheezes and no longer responds when they try to coax speech from her lips.

"Leave her be," George says over the scrawl of his quill and the scratch of his curly writing, "Allow her rest."

Several letters are completed once night has fallen outside. Upon the bed, Connor shudders and groans in her sleep, the sweat beading on her skin and glistening in the light of the candles lit upon the small table at the other end of the room.

The general begins to fear that once the night has ended, he may need to write her name upon one of these pages.

That he will have to stamp the envelope closed and hand it over to a dark-faced messenger who will ride upon horseback all the way to the Davenport homestead. That he will have to sit for hours and visualize the look upon Achilles' face as he tears open the message and reads Washington's scrawled handwriting.

That he will have to sit Samuel Adams and Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson and so many others down at a long table and explain to them that the strong-willed Connor, the most powerful and reliable and admirable woman among them, was taken from their lives by something so cripplingly unfair as a sudden onset of unexplained illness.

The doctor gone before has returned, carrying medicines and other supplies with him. His apology to the commander is passed off, and he tips his head only to the woman who suffers upon the bed not far away.

"You should get some rest, commander," the doctor passes over his shoulder as he rummages through bags, handing off different things to assistants and nurses and doctors and messengers as they come and go from the room once again. Washington slouches in his chair, now scooted closer to the head of Connor's bed. He reaches over and replaces the cloth over her forehead, which has been tossed off yet again in the woman's fitful sleep.

"Impossible," Washington states, taking in a breath. He finally reaches up to take the tricorn hat off of his head. It is set upon one of the knobs of the elaborate headboard of the bed beside him, "While I appreciate the concern, I feel I must remain."

The doctor only nods, mustache quivering with the essence of a smile.

A few letters are passed off to a messenger, once a candle has melted enough for stamps to be pressed upon them, sealing them.

"On your way, inquire about the whereabouts of Samuel Adams. Have him or one of his colleagues report to me at once."

Letters are tucked away into a satchel, and a head nods. Another body come and gone from this room.

A coat hangs over the back of the chair. Washington's eyes are placed upon the ceiling.

The night is long, and the air here is clogged and uneasy to breath.

Several times the general stands and walks the room, or down the stairs to observe the many others who have been wounded or are ill. Those who are awake are greeted with a comrade's spirit.

It is all the general can do to keep guilt and anger at bay. Anger for his inability to lead, anger for their cause, anger for their enemy. Anger for the people he could not save.

Like his own stepson, and the many others whose names he had dutifully scrawled upon pieces of stained parchment paper to send to those families who might weep, just as he had.

By the time Samuel Adams has arrived, it is the fresh hours of morning. The mud has iced over with the morning's chill and the inactivity of wagons wheels and heavy feet. In the doorway the politician takes care to step over those who sleep upon the floor. The injured and the ill are wrapped in shoddy blankets, bare feet poking out at the ends. Their faces are pale, but Adams can tell that they are alive.

Each footstep taken into the room is slow, cautious, as quiet as he can manage with his weight upon their floorboards.

Washington's back is the first thing noticed in the room - his back is turned to the door, slouching forward towards a bed in the corner below a closed window. His feet are firm upon the floor, elbows pressed onto knees. Although Adams cannot tell from this angle, Washington rests his chin upon his folded hands.

Connor's face is the next thing noticed in this room. Breaths that leave her throat are raspy, but they are controlled. She sleeps peacefully, with a pale face. The front of her shirt is unbuttoned halfway, binding covering her breasts. Blankets are strewn over her awkwardly positioned body, and her dark hair sticks to her face. The tiny braid on the side of her head falls upon the pillow, the beads glistening in the light of morning that peaks its way inside through the window.

Footsteps halt at Washington's side, on the side where Samuel might observe Connor's face rather than her feet - the general's left.

"When did she fall ill?" the man's voice, as stoic as it is, betrays itself. Underneath it there is concern - concern for a close friend.

"Yesterday morning," Washington's voice is deadened. Samuel's alarmed expression is turned on his superior.

Etched into the man's face is weary yet hardened concern. Little bits of his true hair pokes out from beneath the wig he wears. In this light, under these circumstances, George Washington appears much older than he really is.

"General Washington, you do not appear so well yourself," the man tiptoes about these words as though he fears they may impart disrespect, "As though you have not slept in some time."

"Sleep would have avoided me, had I taken to a bed or otherwise."

Adams swallows the lump in his throat. His awkward gaze moves about the room until he has found was he seeks.

A second chair is pulled up beside the bed. Samuel takes a seat, eyes moving between Connor and George.

He was not unaware of the gaze the man wore or what it meant. As Adams reaches forward to pull the blanket up higher over Connor's sleeping form, Washington speaks again with a sore and dry throat.

"I wonder what he must have felt," a pair of brows pull together, accentuating wrinkles upon his face, "I wonder what I might have seen had I been able to stay at his side like this. I wonder what I might have done."

"I could never guess," Adams shakes his head, sighing as he looks over Connor. Her wheezing has dissipated considerably, but it is still there, accentuating the act of breathing in her for the two men to hear, "I lost most of my own before they were past weeks old. My two that have grown have been spared by this war, so far as I have seen."

These words have brought little comfort, and Samuel wonders if he might take a different approach. Staring at Connor long enough probes the inevitable words.

"There is a difference, commander. A difference between illness and injury. There is more we can do for illness."

"Is there?"

The general's elbows drop, and he opts instead to cross his arms over his chest and lean back in his chair. His gaze finally shifts to Samuel.

"I worried I might have had to watch her die, Samuel," the general raises his brows, "The doctors came and went, but each action performed by them I myself could easily produce, and it helped little. I feel rather strongly now that there is no difference. Connor could have passed, easily, and I and these doctors could have done little to prevent it. Had I been there for my stepson? I am sure I would have made no difference."

Adams can only sigh and turn his gaze away, unsure of how to retort to such words. He certainly did not feel that way. His own son practiced for a reason - values imparted by his father had left a lasting mark.

"The important thing then, general, is to remember that each man has their time to depart this world," Samuel takes the more metaphoric route, knowing it will comfort better than arguing points, "Your stepson's life was a good one before he was made to depart. Connor is still with us."

"And I am glad," the general nods, but his voice is not as enthusiastic as Samuel's seems to be. The politician cannot decipher whether or not that is because of his weariness or because he is truly not that enthused.

The what-ifs probe Washington's mind as the first doctor arrives in the room to check on the ill woman, just as she opens her eyes. As Samuel greets the woman and the woman offers only a weak nod in her own greeting, the commander-in-chief can only wonder: what if Connor had been in his stepson's situation - out in a battle when she fell ill. Maybe during her many travels alone or upon the open seas as she seemed to travel so often.

But no, Connor was lucky enough to fall ill while in the somewhat capable hands of her patriot brothers.

It was the first time she had ever fallen so ill, she tells them through a miserable pair of lips with a voice hoarse and unrecognizable. A lucky one, she was.

Relief is expressed all around - the doctors predict recovery and regaining of strength after some days of rest. Washington can finally rise from his chair and set his hand upon the Assassin's arm in a small sign of friendly affection. As Samuel mutters of Washington's long night to the woman who can hardly retain the information, the general makes his way outside and to his own tent.

There is relief invested in the avoidance of grief, which already fell so heavy upon many of their hearts. The general's, especially. Once you were responsible for these men, you were responsible for their lives lost. And so he carried grief with him through each moment. Not as an injury that might heal, but as a paralyzing, deadly illness that might manifest over time rather than disappear.

And after so much of the time Connor had spent consoling Washington of the sudden onslaught of his own 'illness' again and again over time, he felt it just that he take this opportunity to do the same unto her.

It was never just a matter of taking care of somebody when they were sick. No, it went much deeper than that, Washington knew.


End file.
